


there's no such thing as time to kill

by archekoeln



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Minor Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, POV Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Reverse Chronology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archekoeln/pseuds/archekoeln
Summary: He is not old and decrepit. He hasn't lived his life. He should be better. Thirty more years, at least. Old enough for another child, maybe. A girl, hopefully, with eyes as bright and as blue as Nathalie’s. Maybe with hair as dark as well, but, you wouldn’t fault your little girl if she gets your blonde instead.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Emilie Agreste/Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	there's no such thing as time to kill

**Author's Note:**

> i haven’t had any mlb thoughts in almost two weeks, and then, suddenly, this slapped me in the face after someone showed me a tumblr post. so here i am.
> 
> this is less of a story and more of me stringing words together so, really, this is trash.
> 
> unbeta'd! the whole thing is in reverse chronological order. title is from 'come along' by cosmo sheldrake!

**vi.**

_ You’re dying. _

The thought lingers in Gabriel’s  _ still _ functioning brain. Two minutes have passed since it makes itself known. Somehow, Gabriel knows that it takes  _ approximately _ four to six minutes before the brain finally ceases to function.

He doesn’t actually know. It’s a random number, a random thought. Two minutes and fifty seconds have passed. It means nothing now, to assume.

Three minutes have passed. That was also how long since his whole body had shut down.

_ His body is dead. You’re dead. _

It’s like, it makes little sense. You were healthy as can be. And then you aren't. You were going to your wedding planner to finalize the whole ceremony. And then you aren’t. You were going to start a new family, build back from whatever ashes you held in your hands. And then you aren’t.

Three minutes and forty seconds have passed.

_ Dying? Dead? Maybe, maybe.  _

He is not old and decrepit. He hasn't lived his life. He should be better. Thirty more years, at least. Old enough for another child, maybe. A girl, hopefully, with eyes as bright and as blue as Nathalie’s. Maybe with hair as dark as well, but, you wouldn’t fault your little girl if she gets your blonde instead. 

Or another boy. Or whatever they choose to be. Either or. 

Maybe grandchildren from Adrien and Marinette, at least. They keep talking about a little girl named Emma and two little boys named Hugo and Louis. They keep saying things like,  _ they’ll call you grand-père and you’ll get to see them,  _ despite the way you treated Adrien during his years growing up under your thumb. 

Speaking of his son—

Adrien is, or was, standing at the foot of Gabriel’s bed, watching the slow descent of his supposed-to-be step-mother’s life. Nathalie is, or was, standing by Gabriel’s right, blinking, watching her supposed-to-be husband fading away. The air around them feels so cold, arctic even. They were never a warm family, but this is—

_Oh my Nathalie,_ Gabriel thinks. Regret burns deep in his throat. His numbing fingers long to brush against her cheeks, where her tears are running tracks, prominent and glistening, and where he often kisses her when she least expects it. 

Gabriel may have smiled at the thought. Four minutes and thirteen seconds. The crinkle in his eyes is obvious enough to his fiance. Nathalie blinks again, and again, and now there are more tears running down her cheeks. Four minutes and thirty seconds. The action doesn't register anymore because Gabriel's vision has long faded and Nathalie is not even a blur now, not even the bright red of her hair recognizable. He smiles anyway, not feeling the way she grabs his arm, nails digging into his skin, his muscles, his bones. 

It should be painful. 

It isn't. It isn't and he isn't afraid.

His smile is frozen on his lips. Five minutes have passed.

His brain finally stops.

You know she will have to let go. (She never will.)

**v.**

When Hawkmoth is found (finally), head bowed in defeat, Gabriel thinks of death.

It is almost a guarantee. You know, they’ll want your head. If not the heroes, Paris will. You’ve spent the better part of three years, vying for jewelry for a quest that won’t see the light of day now because you’ve lost. 

It’s over. Emilie is gone. 

_ Emilie is gone. _

The thought lingers in the air, stale and predictable. Ladybug and Chat Noir are around, somewhere, looking. Looking for what? What else do they need but the Butterfly, still pinned on your chest, thrumming with Paris’ emotions, equal parts uncertainty and hope? 

(The Peacock, maybe.)

Mayura is nowhere to be found. Good news, at least. Gabriel wouldn’t know what to do had she been caught  _ too.  _ But they must know who she is, now that they know who he is. But then again, Mayura has been nowhere since they came for you. She hasn’t been anywhere since you sent her away all those months ago.

Gabriel wonders where she is now— if she’s in Paris at all.

Maybe it’s fear that he catches the scent of, mingling with the air. Thickening. His hands are slicked with sweat beneath his gloves and his chest is heaving with anxiety. He remembers the days spent in the sanctity of his lair, perusing through Paris’ emotions like an open book. 

Anger is always the most prevalent one. Fear is always a close second. They go hand in hand, sometimes, and they’re familiar on his tongue.

And right now, he can sense it. Fear. It’s not his own. He knows what his fear smells, tastes like. (Like peaches, oh, but, it’s not like you’ll admit that it tasted like your favorite fruit.)

Chat Noir glances at him and doesn’t say a word. Is it his? He stands there and he stares at Gabriel and everything about this is wrong, wrong, wrong. His eyes are set in a hard glare and his features twisted with disappointment and rage and Gabriel can feel it and it's  _ wrong. _

A shadow shields him from the sunlight draped on his pathetic form and when he looks up, it’s  _ his _ Nathalie. She’s back and now his forehead is wet and his glasses are askew and his mouth is taut and his chest is heaving and emotions are so, so confusing that, if he could just say something—

She takes away his brooch and everything dims into the background, like a faint humming, like static. He inhales. His chest feels lighter already.

The headlines say,  _ Hawkmoth is finally defeated! _

The headlines should say,  _ Hawkmoth is finally dead! _

**iv.**

This was supposed to be a victory. 

When you think of victory, you think of Emilie. She will be beside you, holding your hand. You will rejoice because a year-long quest will finally be fulfilled. You will have a tearful reunion and Adrien will finally be happy.

But, but, but—

The air shifts into something stifling. Nathalie moans behind him. She struggles to lift her head. He has to hold her (and, oh, her skin feels too cold to the touch, you wonder if you need a new chamber down in the basement prepared).

She breathes in short puffs and, maybe, you imagine that the air around her feels like a noose. The sun hurts her so you put her by the shade. Maybe she will be fine. She says she will be fine.

Gabriel believes her, but only for a little while. 

When they arrive home and when he places her on her bed, her head lolls to the side. At least she looks peaceful, asleep. At least there’s no pain. The apologies slosh around his tongue and he tries to swallow them before they spill and wake her. 

But Nathalie doesn't wake for two days. Gabriel is beside himself.

If she dies,  _ if she dies,  _ you know.

Her hands feel cold to the touch. She weighs like a feather. He thinks of that joke he heard Adrien tell her before,  _ which is heavier, a ton of feathers or a ton of rocks? _

She answers,  _ they're the same,  _ but he shakes his head.

_ It’s the feathers _ , and then he laughs at her expression,  _ because you have to carry the weight of what you did to all those birds. _

If she dies, you die. It's as simple as that.

**(iii.)**

“Your son—” Nathalie’s breath hitches. He can taste her regret when he licks his lips clean from the anticipation. “Your  _ son _ is Chat Noir.”

Gabriel's ears are ringing. His cane has fallen on the marble beneath his feet and the butterflies around him have been startled by the sound.

Chat Noir is Adrien. Adrien is Chat Noir. Chat Noir is your enemy. Adrien is your son.

Victory feels so, so close now. Adrien will want you to succeed. He will want his mother back.

Nathalie’s voice echoes but he is too far away in his thoughts for her to reach, reveling in a would-be future with Emilie and Adrien and him. Perfectly happy and content. 

Hawkmoth watches Chat Blanc’s eyes. Can’t help but stare into them. Something akin to despair reeks from his gaze. Or betrayal, or hesitation, or fear, or contempt. In it, he sees nothing but Chat Blanc and not Adrien Agreste, sees the anguish he caused with the clench in Chat Blanc’s jaw, at that wide-eyed desperation as Chat Blanc fervently keeps his power in check.

Maybe that’s where Gabriel realizes that victory (Emilie) is slipping away. Because Chat Blanc (not Adrien, not Chat Noir) keeps on defying him. Because Ladybug is  _ still here, destroy her!,  _ and yet Chat Blanc still persists on holding Cataclysm in his father’s face. 

When Gabriel hears it softly said, before everything turns to white,  _ I’m sorry, _ he knows it’s not for him.

**ii.**

Gabriel never thinks about the consequences when he is too immersed in an idea. Never does it occur to him that there is something so  _ painstakingly obvious _ about keeping information that could cost you, from someone that held no loyalty to you.

An idea. Akumatizing a sentient machine. A fact. The Miraculous granting wishes. 

Robustus is a sentient machine who wants to be human. A real Pinocchio, that thing. Are you supposed to be his Blue Fairy? You’ve granted his wish but can’t grant your own?

But he’s powerful and that’s enough for Gabriel. He can take back Robustus’ powers. Cut the deal short.

Until, well, until he couldn’t.

Oh, dear.

Nathalie finds him later, the security system disabled and him lying in rubble. His head is on her lap as he dreams of Emilie. 

The Miraculous protected him from the brunt of it all, and she wonders how he is so lucky to be alive at all. 

**i.**

Tell me a bedtime story.

You want to start with  _ 'Once upon a time,',  _ but that's a cliche you're trying to avoid. You want to start at the end and work your way down, but you'll spoil the surprise that way. You want to start in the middle, but that'll just confuse me.

Maybe if you say,  _ you’re dying,  _ you’ll catch their attention. 

When did it start?

How do you greet Emilie a  _ good morning _ when she is the epitome of the sun?

You don’t. You never do. 

In kneeling in front of her coffin, holding a bouquet of  _ Baby’s Breaths  _ and mourning, he will never know how to say  _ good morning _ again. In holding the Miraculous in his hand, feeling the burn of magic against his palm, he will never learn what regrets are until he’s faced with them again.

Emilie held everything good in the world. Her pink-stained cheeks and bright green eyes hide her black-ink heart. Just like you,  _ just like you—  _ both the same in that regard, so naturally, you gravitate around her like the Earth does three hundred and sixty-five days around the Sun. 

But is it that simple?

She is also his muse. She holds out her hand and he will take it without question. He looks past verdant meadows and sees the faint lines of jagged hills, carved sharp and imposing— and there Emilie stands, as if she’s on Mt. Everest instead of a piece of land even he could climb. But she makes it so enticing that he regards it as a trial to overcome until he stands beside her at the top.

And maybe that’s why Gabriel is adamant. And maybe that’s why he wants her back. And maybe that’s why he loses himself when she succumbs; when she presses the Butterfly to his heart before she leaves; when he promises her return as the Miraculous bites onto his chest, marking their vows.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @ telmes


End file.
